There was a pregnant pause.
‘You won’t find anything,’ said Gates.
‘I’m not sure we need to,’ retorted Marion.
Gates shook his head. ‘I don’t advise you to try.’
‘We just need to make enough noise,’ said Marion. ‘You must realise it’s not in your interests for this situation to last much longer. To have us nosing around up here and persuading people like Caroline to assist us. Talking to military personnel without permission. Entering controlled areas you’d prefer to keep closed. It can’t be convenient for you to have us disrupting your activities here with all kinds of inquiries and other aggravation. I assume you’d prefer it to stop sooner rather than later.’
Gates still wavered.
‘We want those men,’ repeated Marion.
Gates looked at Caroline standing quietly beside the Icelandic police officer, contributing nothing to the conversation.
‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘I’m prepared to help you with the investigation into the death of this Icelander. Would that be sufficient to create trust?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Marion. ‘Help us how?’
‘If we come to an agreement, I must stress that it would not in any way constitute recognition of the validity of your insinuations regarding nuclear weapons.’
‘Meaning...?’
‘You can arrest the men. Conduct the interrogations and complete the inquiry. But they’ll be tried by us.’
Marion turned to Caroline.
‘Would you like the honour of locking Jones up?’
Three-quarters of an hour later an inbound military transport from Greenland taxied up to one of the hangars. Marion and Caroline watched the huge beast approach with a thunderous roar that gradually died away once the engines had been turned off. Colonel Gates and his men were nowhere to be seen. Caroline had called for backup from military police and several other officers were standing behind her as the ramp was driven up to the plane. The door in the fuselage opened and after a brief interval a man appeared accompanied by two military policemen, a short figure, in handcuffs, dressed in green combat trousers and jacket. He had seen what was happening from the window of the plane as it taxied to a halt by the hangar, and stood looking down apprehensively at the reception committee on the tarmac. Reluctantly, he descended the steps until he came face to face with Caroline.
‘Private Earl Jones?’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said the man. He had a narrow face with dark stubble and black eyebrows that almost met in the middle. Despite his muscular build his shoulders were a little rounded and he had an obtuse look in his eyes.
Caroline slapped his face so hard that her palm stung afterwards.
‘Joan says hello.’
50
Erlendur parked in front of the house, marvelling yet again at how it had been allowed to go to rack and ruin. Neither the building nor the surrounding plot showed the slightest evidence of care. Instead, the whole place bore witness to a paralysing apathy, to long years of neglect and decay, as if blighted by death itself. He lit a cigarette. Mensalder was no longer with him. He had dropped him back at the petrol station where his car was parked. Mensalder had been so depressed and subdued that Erlendur hardly heard his goodbye. They had spoken little on the return journey. Having told him everything that mattered, Mensalder had retreated into his own thoughts, doubts and regrets — old enemies that Erlendur suspected would weigh on him more heavily than ever before in the coming days.
Erlendur sat for a considerable time outside the house. A newsflash on the radio announced that the two men lost on the Eyvindarstadir Moors had been found dead. It appeared that one had fallen into a hole in the ice and been unable to climb out again. The other man had tried in vain to help. When the rescue team found him he was lying frozen to death a few feet from the hole, as if he would not for the world have abandoned his friend.
Erlendur cursed the cruelty of fate, the pitiless elements and the men’s cold demise. Then, lighting another cigarette, he turned his attention to what Mensalder had told him about his arrangement to meet Dagbjört and her failure to appear. He could see no movement in the house. No sign of light. The curtains were drawn across the windows. Dagbjört’s house also stood dark, silent and empty, with the ‘For Sale’ notice still in the kitchen window, waiting to be brought back to life. Two houses side by side and a girl on her way to school. Was that as far as Dagbjört had got? To the house next door?
Stubbing out his cigarette, Erlendur stepped out of the car and surveyed the building, then went up to the front door. He knocked, then after a pause knocked again, louder this time. When nobody answered, he turned away and walked into the garden. The illumination from the street light barely reached this far and it took a while for Erlendur’s eyes to adjust. He stood amid the long, withered grass, straining to discern any movement indoors and wondering if Rasmus had gone to bed.
Going over to the back door, he discovered that it was locked but that the lock was old and rotten, like everything else in the house. All it required was a hard jerk to open it. He called Rasmus’s name, and although he received no answer, decided to go in anyway.
His eyes now accustomed to the gloom, he entered what he took to be the dining room. From his previous visit, he remembered that this had faced the garden. Again he called Rasmus’s name, raising his voice this time. He stood still for minute or two, listening, but the only answer was the profound hush inside the house. He groped his way as far as the hall and staircase, with the idea of trying upstairs, then heard a door shutting quietly somewhere off to his left where the garage adjoined the house. All at once another door opened and Rasmus appeared. He seemed preoccupied and didn’t notice Erlendur. Switching on the light, he closed the door carefully behind him and headed for the stairs. Erlendur could hear him muttering under his breath but couldn’t make out the words.
‘Rasmus,’ he said, and although he spoke softly in an attempt not to startle the man too much, Rasmus was so shocked that he emitted a piercing shriek and crashed back into the wall.
‘You didn’t answer the door,’ said Erlendur.
‘Who... who’s there? What...? Thief! Are you a thief?’
‘It’s me — Erlendur.’
‘Oh... is it you... you...?’ Rasmus had been winded by the shock and was so badly shaken that he couldn’t get his bearings. ‘What... what do you mean by giving me such a fright? Why are you persecuting me like this?’
‘I’m sorry, the back door was open,’ said Erlendur. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Frighten me?’ echoed Rasmus, recovering slightly. ‘The door open — what nonsense. It’s never open. Do you mean to say you broke in? Get out of my house this minute. I don’t want you here. How many times do I have to tell you? How could you do this to me? I’ve never... I’ve never been so shocked in all my life. You have no right to let yourself in here. I want you out. Get out!’
‘Where were you? In the garage? You can’t have heard when I knocked.’
‘I didn’t hear a thing,’ said Rasmus, trying to adopt a more confident manner, running a hand over his greasy mat of hair and standing taller, though his shoulders were still hunched and stooping. ‘Why don’t you do as I ask? Will you please leave?!’
His voice broke as he tried to give force to this order, ending in another high-pitched shriek. Erlendur studied him, this pathetic human being, isolated, imprisoned, afraid, and experienced an odd sense of sympathy.
‘I’d like a proper chat with you about Dagbjört,’ he said. ‘We now know where she was going the morning she vanished and—’